


Frostbitten

by Coriesocks



Series: Witcher fics [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort No Hurt, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Nipples, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/Coriesocks
Summary: Jaskier needs warming up. Luckily, Geralt is there to lend a hand. Or two.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604476
Comments: 89
Kudos: 1545
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quicksilvermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilvermaid/gifts).



> For my darling Q. Thank for the prompt, the beta, and your endless support!

Geralt squinted against the snow as he searched for somewhere vaguely sheltered where he and Jaskier could stop for the night. Of course, there was nothing. There had been nothing but gently rolling hills for hours. A few scrubby bushes here and there; a barely note-worthy rocky outcrop; the occasional scrawny tree. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected any different. He was familiar enough with the area to know there would be nothing until they were almost upon the next settlement. He growled, the noise little more than a heavy exhale. He was annoyed. Annoyed with the land for being so devoid of shelter; annoyed with himself for getting them into this situation; annoyed that the fucking snow was in his fucking eyes, making it so he couldn’t see a damn fucking thing.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, to take on one last contract before heading to warmer climes to avoid the harsh winter storms that were looming on the horizon. It should have been easy coin. A simple hunt and kill. Geralt could practically do that in his sleep and he hadn’t anticipated any problems this time. Plus, with Jaskier proving himself a bit of a nuisance among the locals, it had seemed fortuitous that their onward journey be given fiscal purpose. 

Unfortunately, what had appeared to be a relatively quick task—he had estimated it would take a day, two at most—had rapidly evolved into a long, convoluted, behemoth of a job which had him and Jaskier to-ing and fro-ing across the kingdom in order to get the right things from the right people, then be in exactly the right location at precisely the right time and…ugh. He should have quit the second that the mage had threatened to withhold the beast’s location unless Geralt fetched him some ridiculously obscure plant. He didn’t need the coin, and he certainly didn’t care about the blot on his already heavily tarnished reputation. But…he hated to leave things undone, and few things were as dangerous as a half-completed ritual left in the wrong hands and a pissed off monster, so… he’d gritted his teeth and continued, ignoring the nagging feeling of impending doom.

The promised snowstorm, when it had finally hit the day after collecting on the job, had been the final piece of shit, dumped liberally upon what had been a truly atrocious week.

An icy blast lashed Geralt from behind, whipping his hair into his face. Roach whinnied in indignation so he murmured soft nothings to calm her while rubbing her flank. He’d dismounted to walk alongside her some time ago because she provided better shelter from the wind at his side rather than beneath him. And maybe a little because Jaskier had looked like he was starting to struggle and Geralt had wanted to be close enough to catch him when he inevitably tripped over a tree root.

At least the bloody monster was dead now, the vengeful mage appeased, the bandits dispatched, and they could finally head somewhere warmer. Somewhere with a bath. Fuck, yes. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath, a bed… a massage. His heart sped up and he cut a guilty glance over at Jaskier. It wasn’t entirely his fault his thoughts headed in that direction—the bard’s fingers weren’t just skilled with a lute—but… he frowned. The bard was being too quiet. It was unnerving. And his skin had a strange, greyish tinge to it. It was disconcerting enough that Geralt found himself breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“Not much further and we’ll stop for the night,” he said, voice gravelly from disuse.

“Stop?” Jaskier stopped and looked up, screwing his face up against the snow’s assault. “Here?” He looked confused, like he had only just realised it was snowing. The old blanket he’d wrapped over his head and around his shoulders made him look like an old fishwife—it was strangely endearing.

“Soon. Not now.”

“Oh.” Jaskier sighed and tugged the blanket further over his head, before trudging on without another glance back. It was… unnerving. Yes. Unnatural, even, for Jaskier to be so quiet.

Geralt watched him for a moment; the way his slender shoulders trembled, his whole body racked with shivers; the way his feet looked too heavy. His clothes weren’t suited at all to the weather—why could he never dress appropriately? He recalled the time he’d suggested Jaskier wear a chest plate and helmet for a particularly dangerous contract—Jaskier had looked at him like he’d pissed on his shoe, so he’d not bothered since… Idiot. Geralt shook his head and strode to catch up, walking a touch closer than necessary to lend the bard some body heat.

As if sensing he was being thought about, Jaskier stumbled and Geralt had to grab his shoulder to stop him tumbling forwards and pitching face-first into the snow. Jaskier barely acknowledged the near-miss, raising his eyes briefly to smile faintly and nod at Geralt, before staring back at the ground. Geralt ignored the unease that clawed at his chest. They would be fine. _Jaskier_ would be fine. _If they found somewhere to stop soon,_ his brain tacked on. It was no use dwelling on what-ifs. The fact was, they couldn’t stop yet, so their only option was to push on. With another worried glance at Jaskier beside him, he reduced his pace by just a fraction. They’d be fine.

A short while later, the shadowy edge of a skeletal forest loomed out of the blizzard and Geralt breathed a sigh of relief. He lead Roach and Jaskier towards the bare trees that lined the edge. The cover would undoubtedly be greater the deeper they headed, but that also increased the risk of disturbing other beasts sheltering from the winter storm, and Geralt was _not_ in the mood.

“We’ll stop here,” he said, pulling to a halt at the base of a gnarled tree trunk. The trunk was wide and several thick branches swooped low to the ground creating what would probably be secluded, leafy den in the summer, but which was currently more like a rough outline. It would, at least, provide more shelter than camping out in the open, though, and was probably the best they’d find in the vicinity. 

Jaskier looked up from the ground, blinking slowly as if just waking up.

“I’m going to get some firewood and maybe find some food—you set up the tent.” It went against all his protective urges to leave the bard alone, but it was either that or drag him along on the hunter-gatherer mission, and with the way he looked, Geralt knew he would end up having to carry him back to camp.

Jaskier blinked again, his brows drawing together in confusion for a second before his expression cleared. “Yeah,” he said, although it was little better than a huff of breath.

Geralt stepped closer. “Alright? You think you can do that?” He clenched his fist to stop from holding a hand to Jaskier’s forehead like an overbearing mother hen.

“Mhm. Okay…? Sure. Yes. Tent. I can… Tent.” Jaskier slowly twisted around in a circle, scanning the ground, and then stopped, his face draining of what little colour that remained. “Why are the trees moving?”

“What?”

“And… oh. There’s two of you. Hello other you. And you.”

“Jaskier. You need to sit down.”

“Absolutely,” Jaskier said firmly, then he dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap.

“Jaskier!” Geralt lurched forward, his first thought that Jaskier had been struck by an arrow. He scooped the bard into his arms, checking him for injury, but there was no blood, nor any sign of an arrow. He stared down at him, mind racing, wondering what he was supposed to do because where the fuck was a healer when you needed one? But then Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open.

“Geralt?” He grinned dopily, reaching up and patting Geralt’s face with a freezing hand, poking his cheek, his nose, his chin. “What are you doing here?” 

“Saving your arse, it seems. Come on, we need to warm you up.”

“I always knew you were trying to get in my britches. You saucy little witcher.” His voice was slurred and the knot of worry in Geralt’s gut pulsed and grew, spreading through his body, threatening to turn to panic because he could not lose Jaskier. Not tonight, in this barren, frostbitten landscape. Not when it was Geralt’s fault they were here in the first place.

*

Somehow, Geralt managed to light a fire, put up the tent, and find something to eat—not that Jaskier did more than stare at the cured meat Geralt had shoved into his hand—all without taking his eyes off the bard. He’d left him sat as close to the fire as he dared while he set up the rest of the small camp, but even though a little colour had returned to his cheeks, he was still shivering violently and was far too quiet for Geralt’s liking. 

“Come back to have your wicked way..?” Jaskier slurred as Geralt crouched beside him.

And oh, Geralt would. He definitely would. But Jaskier was delirious from cold and would never be saying such things were he in his right mind. So, Geralt rolled his eyes and grunted his disagreement. 

“You need to sleep.”

“I don’t hear a no…” He looked up at Geralt and smiled lazily; reached out and tugged at the hem of his shirt.

“No.” When Jaskier pouted at him, he hastily added, “Not tonight,” and quickly looked away, hooking an arm around Jaskier and hoisting him off the ground.

The tent wasn’t any warmer than outside, but at least there was a little protection from the icy wind. Geralt crouched just inside the entrance to the small tent after tying the flap closed, looking down at Jaskier, wondering what the fuck he was going to do. Jaskier’s eyes had slipped shut the second he’d hit the bedroll, still wrapped in the now-sodden blanket, but the shivers hadn’t subsided, and he was breathing too fast. That awful pallor to his skin had returned too, now that they were a little further from the heat of the fire. Geralt tugged off a glove and reached down to brush the hair out of Jaskier’s eyes, recoiling at the feel of his cold, clammy skin. Jaskier let out a pitiful whimper, so Geralt replaced his hand, gently stroking the bard’s hair and silently daring him to try and die on his watch. 

He knew, rationally, that he needed to get Jaskier out of those wet clothes, and soon, but it was tricky. He’d often imagined undressing the bard, peeling back the layers of his unnecessarily fiddly outfit, revealing his slender body piece by piece, but in his head, Jaskier had been a willing—and very enthusiastic—partner. With Jaskier so out of it, stripping him felt wrong. So wrong. But if he didn’t raise Jaskier’s body temperature soon, there would be no question about his survival. It just wouldn’t happen. He’d be dead before dawn. Geralt would be alone once more, and for the first time in recent memory, that thought terrified him. 

Carefully, and trying not to let his eyes linger, Geralt peeled off Jaskier’s clothes. The bard was barely responsive and more than once, Geralt had to pause to check he could still hear his breaths; could still see his chest fluttering. He’d dug the driest blankets out of the pack and tucked them around the bard, but he needed more. He looked so small, so helpless, his brows drawn together, a small divot of pain etched on his forehead, his lips a sickly purple, and Geralt found himself making soothing sounds in between murmured threats of what he would do to Jaskier if he had the gall to die. So, without dwelling too long on whether or not it was appropriate, Geralt stripped his own clothes off and settled himself beneath the blankets, behind Jaskier, laying on his side and hugging him to his chest. 

Eventually, Jaskier’s shivering lessened, his breathing evened out, his skin gained warmth, colour, and Geralt let himself relax a little. He was able to focus on the feel of Jaskier in his arms, the rightness of the way their bodies fitted together. He breathed in Jaskier’s scent and allowed the feeling of contentment lull him into a light doze. He would survive. He wouldn’t lose him. Not tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to LGray, one of my favourite humans in the entire world, for the beta 💙

Jaskier arched his back, eyes closed against the glow of the early morning sun. A slow, lazy stretch, as he clung to the fraying threads of a delicious half-remembered dream. It had been so vivid that he swore he could still feel the man behind him; the coarse hair tickling his shoulder blades; the press of a well-muscled chest against his back; a huff of breath on his nape; a low... rumbling? Jaskier froze. That wasn’t in his head. He snapped his eyes open and searched his memory for a reason _why_ there was someone under the blankets with him. He was no stranger to waking up with another body close behind him, not by any stretch, but usually he had at least a vague recollection of what had happened. His mind was worryingly blank, though. He couldn’t even remember _where_ he was, let alone how he’d gotten there and with who. Had he been drunk? No, he didn’t feel hungover. Sure, his head felt kind of foggy, and now he was more awake, he was aware that his whole body ached, but it wasn’t the bone-deep throb of one too many ales; and besides, his stomach felt far too settled for the memory loss to be drink-related. Had he been poisoned? Knocked out? _Was he dead?_ No… he screwed up his face. He… he remembered fire and glowing eyes and— he had to have been enchanted. That was the only reasonable explanation! He’d been enchanted and forced to partake in a wild night of revelry. Or… passion? And he couldn’t remember a bloody thing. Typical.

Carefully—he had no desire to disturb his bed partner unless absolutely necessary because what if they were a murderer, or an evil mage, or… oh gods, what if they were _ugly_ —Jaskier took in his surroundings. He was in a tent, that was obvious enough but... _Ah,_ it was _his_ tent—he recognised the poorly repaired rip in the canvas—which made sense now he came to think about it, because he and Geralt had been on the road for a while now. He silently congratulated himself; that was one mystery solved! All that remained was to work out _who_ he’d invited back to his tent and hope that Geralt wasn’t too pissed off with him; he’d undoubtedly had to spend the night outside with Roach in order for Jaskier to do fuck-knows-what with fuck-knows-who. Although, interestingly, his arse didn’t hurt at all.

He shifted slightly, intending to ease onto his back to get a better look at who was hugging him, when the arm slung over his hip tightened, large, blunt fingers curling into his chest. His _bare_ chest. Shit. He was naked? Which, upon reflection, was understandable considering… but why couldn’t he remember? He paused, taking a moment to steady his breathing so as not to rouse the person with his racing heart. Were they already awake? Gods, he hoped not. He still needed to work out whether this was a scarper or stay-for-breakfast situation. He lay motionless; focused on the steady rise and fall of the chest behind him; felt their slow, even breaths ruffle the hair on the back of his head. So, the person was _probably_ asleep… Or good at faking. One thing was clear, though—they were almost certainly naked too, and very obviously a man, unless he was much mistaken. 

Jaskier glanced down, seeking more clues. The arm curled protectively around him was heavily scarred and horribly familiar. If he didn’t know any better he’d have said it looked a bit like Geralt’s arm… but it couldn’t be his. As much as Jaskier had lusted after the witcher and fantasised about this very thing (only with less confusion and more orgasms), the bastard had only ever shown interest in slightly unhinged women that could kill him with a single look—why would he settle for a completely non-evil, if slightly talkative, bard who occasionally got him into only very minor trouble? 

As he watched, the thumb began to move, stroking lazily over his nipple, the callused skin deliciously rough against the sensitive nub. Jaskier let out a shaky breath and bit down on his lip, fighting the urge to arch into the touch and grind back onto the insistent hardness nudging his arse cheek because _oh fuck,_ it felt divine. He wouldn’t let himself give it, though. Not yet. Not until he knew who it was. Then… maybe they could repeat whatever they did last night, just to refresh his memory.

Fighting against the distracting thrum of arousal, Jaskier mentally retraced his steps, hoping he could work out when everything went tits up. He remembered waking up at the crack of dawn, already cold through to his core, and Geralt demanding he put away the tent. They’d had a meagre breakfast of cold meat left over from dinner with some stale bread, and then Geralt had grumbled something about the weather before mounting Roach and walking off, not even waiting to see if Jaskier was following. As usual. Bastard. There had been nothing but grass and mud and rocks, a tree or two, and then… oh, yes. Then, it had started snowing, the flakes whirling around them in thick, fluffy clumps, covering everything in minutes. He couldn’t remember much of what happened after that. He’d been so cold, his body had ached with it, and he remembered forcing his feet to move only so that he could keep Geralt within sight. Although, now he thought on it, Geralt hadn’t actually disappeared ahead like he usually did; he hadn’t dived headfirst into a cave full of wraiths, or chased a wyvern over a hill without a thought spared for his long-suffering companion. In fact, Jaskier swore he could even recall Geralt dismounting from Roach and walking beside him… which was… huh. That was odd. That… that had to be his imagination, right? Some fevered invention of his enchantment-addled brain?

It suddenly occurred to him to wonder where Geralt was. It wasn’t like him to let Jaskier sleep late, not even when he had company. _Especially_ when he had company. On the occasions when Jaskier had been able to charm someone into his bed for the night, Geralt usually made a point of rousing him extra early. He couldn’t hear any Geralt-like sounds from outside—no muttered conversations with Roach, no impatient sighs. Had he fucked off without saying anything? Again? From what he could see, there was no sign of his bedroll in the tent. There was just a pile of— wait. Those were his clothes. And… and Geralt’s clothes too, along with his armour, _his swords…_ When did he ever go anywhere without his swords? And _fuck_ it was hard to think straight while his nipple was being fondled.

As if aware of the direction in which his thoughts were rapidly heading, the mystery man tensed, stretched, and grunted, grinding closer, squeezing tighter, and… oh shit oh shit oh shit. Jaskier’s mouth went dry. He’d slept beside the man enough times to recognise the sounds he made as he roused… He knew that scarred arm caging him looked too familiar. But that sword-callused thumb scraping teasingly over his very happy nipple, that broad chest pressed against his back… that was new. And yet, still, so obviously, _Geralt._ Bloody fuck. Why was Geralt nuzzling into the back of his neck as if this were a completely normal thing for him to be doing? Had he been enchanted too? Oh gods, what if Geralt was dreaming about Yennefer, or Triss, or that noblewoman who’d been feeling him up the other day? He’d probably run Jaskier through with a blade the second he woke up properly. Especially once he realised just how… excited Jaskier was. Another wave of arousal washed through him and his cock throbbed, heavy against his leg, as Geralt shifted again and re-settled against his back. 

Fuck. 

Jaskier considered pushing him away, fleeing the tent and not stopping until he reached Novigrad, because Geralt was _not_ a morning person (or any time of day person, to be honest) and he would _not_ be best pleased to wake up to Jaskier’s erection bobbing inches from his hand...

Before he could extract himself from Geralt’s arms, though, a little voice piped up in the back of his head. It was the voice that so often got him into trouble, but which he had never yet learnt to ignore. _When will you have this opportunity again?_ it purred. He screwed his face up, tried to resist, but honestly, how could he argue against that? He’d dreamt of waking up in Geralt’s arms for years, ever since first laying eyes on him. The man was so ruggedly handsome Jaskier could cry— _had_ cried. He’d written ballad after ballad, composed poems, poured his heart into literary ramblings. He’d gritted his teeth and swallowed every inconvenient emotion and erection that had arisen each time Geralt had requested he rub chamomile into that perfect, perfect arse of his. Jaskier’d never seriously entertained the thought of anything actually happening between them, though. 

And it probably still wouldn’t. He let out a shaky breath. His whole body thrummed with want and he longed to wrap a hand around his length, to bring himself off with a few quick strokes (which is all it would take, he was sure), but knowing his luck, Geralt would wake up at the most inopportune moment. Besides which, it was probably a teeny bit morally iffy to bash one out when the person you were wanking over wasn’t even aware of what they were doing…

He had two options, as far as he could see. One, he could wait it out and hope Geralt woke up enough to stop what he was doing, but not enough that he realised he had been doing it in the first place; or two, he could wake Geralt up before things had a chance to get any worse. Or better.

Bollocks to it. He wasn't in any fit state to make a sensible decision. He challenged any person to think straight when—

Jaskier gasped as Geralt’s hand started moving, trailing down Jaskier's front until fingers fastened around his hip. And then, because the gods were clearly not done fucking with him, Geralt rolled his hips forward, once, twice. Jaskier let out an undignified groan and the movement stilled, although Geralt made no move to release his hip. Oh, fucking hell. This wasn’t good. Geralt was going to kill him.

“Geralt?” he hissed, his voice quiet yet urgent. 

The grip on his hip loosened. “Hmm.”

Jaskier tried again, firmer. _“Geralt.”_

“What?” Geralt’s voice was low and gravelly. He sounded half-asleep, annoyed but then he tensed and the hand on Jaskier’s hip twitched before slowly withdrawing. Cold air swept over Jaskier’s back as Geralt rolled away, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. 

He raised onto an elbow and twisted his neck, looking over his shoulder. It was an awkward angle, but the discomfort was preferable to turning over and giving Geralt an eyeful of just how affected he was by all the… uh… cuddling. Geralt was lying on his back, staring at the tent canopy, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his chest atop the blanket. The sunlight made the stained canvas glow, painting pale yellow over everything. It did nothing to obscure the dark smudges beneath Geralt’s eyes. His face was cold and unreadable, and for a moment, Jaskier thought he must have imagined the whole thing, but the longer he stared, the more he noticed tiny details such as the way Geralt wouldn’t meet his eye; the way his leg was angled just-so to obscure his groin; the way his fingers twitched on the blanket, clutching it to his chest like a shield; the barely noticeable divot of worry between his eyebrows.

“Spit it out, Jaskier,” Geralt growled, cutting him a narrow-eyed glare. His yellow eyes flashed and he tugged the blanket a little higher up his body.

“Nothing! Nothing at all. It’s just...um…” Jaskier sighed and rolled onto his back, erection be damned, because he was going to get a crick in his neck otherwise. Geralt’s face betrayed nothing and Jaskier considered dropping the whole thing… but he _really_ wanted to know, and he’d never been good at keeping his mouth shut... “What the fuck happened?” 

Geralt’s expression remained impassive. Unreadable. Then, like an utter arse, he asked: “When?”

Jaskier blinked. “When…?” He shook his head. Were they just supposed to ignore their current predicament? No. He wasn’t going to let the stubborn git get away with being evasive. “Geralt. I feel like I’ve been trampled by a rock troll and, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re naked. In bed. Together. I have questions—many, many questions—and quite frankly, I’m surprised you don’t.”

Geralt closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and exhaled through his nose. He turned away from Jaskier and reached for his bag, the blanket going with him. Jaskier yelped and managed to grab a corner before it bared him completely, gathering it protectively over his crotch. When Geralt turned back he made no effort to hide his appraisal as he trailed his eyes down Jaskier’s now-exposed chest and lingered on the bunched fabric at his groin—fabric that was doing little to disguise his still-enthusiastic erection. Jaskier flushed, but refused to cower under the scrutiny.

“Drink,” Geralt said, shoving a water bottle at him. “You should eat something too.”

Jaskier jolted upright, fumbling to catch the water bottle. He took a gulp of water, ignoring the slight tremble in his hand, and then wiped his mouth on his arm. Geralt’s eyes didn’t leave him once. “Are… are you ready to tell me what’s going on?” His voice was, thankfully, steadier than his hand—he almost sounded confident. 

Geralt huffed, settling onto his back again, and explained. About the cold, the confusion, the suspected hypothermia, all while Jaskier sipped at the water, scarcely able to believe how close he’d come to not waking up at all.

“So...I almost died? And you cuddled me back to life?” As stories went, it wasn't the most believable—his enchantment theory would make for a far better song—but what did Geralt have to gain by making it up?

“I had to raise your body temperature,” Geralt said, studying at the canopy again. “Skin to skin contact was the quickest way.”

“Oh.” Jaskier couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Part of him had hoped the naked cuddling had meant something else, but apparently, it was just practical. He shivered; with the blankets pooled around his waist, he had nothing to protect him from the chilly air. 

“Come here.” Geralt took the water bottle out of his hands and pulled him down to the bedroll. He positioned their bodies so Jaskier was the little spoon again and tucked the blanket around them both. Another shiver danced through Jaskier’s body, only this time it wasn’t because of the cold. 

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, afraid that if he spoke too loud he’d break the spell. Geralt’s arm was heavy over his middle but the pressure made him feel safe, protected.

“Keeping you warm,” Geralt replied, his words tickling the hairs at the back of Jaskier’s neck. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” Jaskier huffed out a breathy laugh. It all felt so surreal. Were they going to cuddle like this all day? Was Geralt after… more? Or was this just how he cared for his friends? Naked cuddling? Surely he didn’t want the same things as Jaskier? “It’s... nice. Warm. Like a loaf of bread, fresh out of the oven—" Geralt tensed. "Which is a good thing! Lovely and warm, is bread. Yes. Very pleasant.” 

“Pleasant?”

“…Yes?”

“Your body suggests you find it more than ‘pleasant’.”

Jaskier choked. “…You noticed, that, huh?” 

“Hmm.”

Mortification coloured his next words as they tripped over themselves on their way out of his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But it’s hardly my fault—I wake up in the arms of the… the most manliest of men The Continent has ever produced, his prick jabbing me in the arse, his… his… muscles all over me, bear-hugging me, playing with my ni—”

Jaskier squeaked as he suddenly found himself pulled onto his back. Geralt was everywhere, all around him, filling every one of his senses, caging him with elbows digging into the bedroll either side of his head, their bodies lined up, almost touching, but not quite. He wanted to pinch himself because this couldn’t really be happening, could it? He’d never before been so eager and yet simultaneously so unsure. He was desperate for something, anything, to happen; he would take anything Geralt was willing to give him. A kiss, a touch, a promise. His body trembled with the force of his desire, his breath coming in short and hard puffs. The anticipation was frustrating and terrifying and truly delicious, but he could only stare up at him, dazed from his arousal, pinned to the spot by Geralt’s fiery gaze. His power, barely restrained, rolled off him in waves; it was like a physical presence, engulfing Jaskier. White hair fell down either side of his face like a curtain, shutting out the outside world, heightening the intimacy of the moment and Jaskier’s heart thundered in his chest. They were so close, he could see every scar, every hair, every fleck of orange and gold in his eyes… As he stared, they flicked down to his lips and that was all the warning he got before Geralt closed the distance between them, rough, urgent, wanting. 

Jaskier arched up into the kiss, every thought, every uncertainty, falling away. He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pulling him closer, showing him he was all in, whatever Geralt wanted; that in this moment, Jaskier was his. He threaded his fingers through white hair, delighting in the groan it elicited when he dug his nails into Geralt’s scalp. Fingers explored shoulders, chest, arms, trailing over every inch he could reach, filing away every touch that made the Witcher loose a rumbling groan. He lost himself to the sensation of stubble scratching across his jaw, to soft bites on his neck, to teeth on his ear lobe. 

It was everything he’d hoped, it was life-altering, it was a bloody religious experience, but he needed more. He could feel Geralt holding back; his muscles trembling as he held himself over Jaskier, chests only just touching. Their erections slid against each other as Jaskier writhed beneath him, seeking much-needed friction, pressure, but it remained tantalisingly out of reach. He exhaled in frustration. Was Geralt worried about hurting him? That wouldn’t do. He wanted—needed—Geralt to use him. To take what he wanted. Jaskier would gladly give him everything. 

_Fuck,_ that teasing rub of their cocks was too much to bear. He hooked a leg around Geralt’s thigh, urging him to close the distance, arching his body up to grind their hips together. And it was good, so good, but still not enough. He snaked his hands between them, scraping blunt nails over Geralt’s chest, finding his nipples. He gave them a quick squeeze and then shoved. Geralt grunted his surprise, jerking upward and Jaskier used the momentum to push him onto his back. He straddled Geralt’s lap, his mouth falling open in a gasp at the sudden glut of sensation. He dragged his hands over Geralt’s chest, feeling the muscles, the scars, beneath his fingers. Geralt’s eyes widened, and his hands found Jaskier’s thighs, trailing up to his waist and back down again, mapping his skin, a slow reverential exploration. 

Jaskier leant down, their lips almost but not quite touching. “I won’t break,” he whispered, grinning when those golden eyes met his, face open, expression raw.

Geralt growled, and surged up, grabbing the back of Jaskier’s head and bringing their lips together. His other hand pushed between them, encircling them both, and Jaskier could have wept. His head fell forward as he clutched tightly to Geralt and thrust into his callused fist, fingers digging into his muscled shoulders, his ashen hair. Stubble rubbed his neck raw as Geralt sucked bruising kisses into the soft skin, marking him. His. 

Words of praise, curses, exclamations, tumbled out of Jaskier’s lips unbidden, spurred on by the low, breathy noises Geralt was making. Fuck, he wanted everything, wanted the witcher to have every part of him, but he was too close and that would have to wait for next time—and there was bloody well going to be a next time because Jaskier wasn’t going to forget this.

_“Jaskier.”_

The sound of his name on Geralt’s lips, in that needy, breathless tone, was too much to bear and he came with a strangled cry, spilling his release over Geralt’s fist as he gripped his shoulders, burying his face in his pale hair.

He rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm, chest heaving as he sucked in deep breaths and slowly came back to himself. Geralt's fingers danced lightly up and down his spine, soft, teasing touches that sent fresh shivers through him.

“Fucking bloody bollocks,” Jaskier said with a breathy chuckle as he clumsily disentangled himself, sitting back on his heels. Geralt lay on the bedroll, a tiny smile playing at his lips. Jaskier grinned, still straddling Geralt’s thighs. His whole body tingled and his head felt pleasantly fuzzy; he wanted to lie down and luxuriate in the feeling while he caught his breath, but Geralt was beneath him, one hand lazily stroking his prick as he watched Jaskier. A shiver coursed through him when he realised his come was coating Geralt’s length; that it was him who’d got Geralt into this state. 

“Need a hand?”

“Hmm.” Geralt smirked. He let go of his cock and arched an eyebrow expectantly. 

Jaskier laughed and took him in hand, leaning over the witcher, and fastening his lips over a nipple as he worked Geralt with swift, rough strokes. Geralt flexed and trembled beneath him, and Jaskier could tell he was close. He traced a hot line with his tongue across Geralt’s chest to his other nipple, working his hand faster, firmer, rubbing the palm of his other hand over the head and adding a little twist that he knew would make his own toes curl. He scraped his teeth over the nipple, sucking it into his mouth and Geralt let out a low, desperate moan. His body tensed beneath Jaskier, and then he painted his chest with hot, white stripes as Jaskier stroked him through his orgasm. 

“Enough,” Geralt mumbled after a few moments, twisting his hips to dislodge him. 

Jaskier rolled off and for a brief moment, dithered at his side, unsure how he was supposed to act. He still felt relaxed and sated, but now it was over, the cold in the tent was starting to seep back into his bones. 

Geralt grimaced and grabbed something off the floor—a shirt, which looked suspiciously like… it was. It was _Jaskier’s_ shirt. The outrage. Geralt half-heartedly swiped the come off his stomach, and then chucked the shirt to Jaskier presumably so he could clean himself up too _(with his own shirt!)_ Or maybe this was a hint for him to start dressing? And what was he supposed to wear now, he wondered. Did Geralt just expect him to prance around in a come-stained top for his amusement? He made an irritated sound, a mask for the disappointment steadily welling up inside him, and crawled over to his pack to root around for some less salaciously decorated clothes. It wasn’t that he’d expected declarations of love, but he’d hoped for something a little more… caring than being dismissed with his own dirty shirt.

“What are you doing? Come here.” Geralt shuffled over on the bedroll and made a space beside him.

Jaskier flicked his gaze between Geralt’s face and the space on the bedroll. Was he supposed to just…? 

“Fine.” Geralt’s expression darkened, an indecipherable look flickering across his face.

“Hold on! I was looking for a clean shirt, but that can wait if there’s to be… cuddling?” He smiled hopefully and was rewarded by Geralt’s scowl deepening. 

Geralt didn’t offer any further clarification so Jaskier slotted himself into the crook of his arm, settling his head on Geralt’s shoulder, and hesitantly slipping an arm across his slightly sticky chest. Geralt tugged the blanket over them and then his other hand found its way to Jaskier’s hip, fingers lightly tracing circles on his skin. It was all very strange, Jaskier thought. He never would have imagined Geralt to be a post-sex cuddler, but he tightened his arm and relaxed into the embrace, letting the soothing sound of Geralt’s heartbeat lull him into a light doze.

—

Jaskier had been surprised, once he finally emerged from the tent, to find he had no recollection of the place where they’d camped. The last thing he could remember was lots of flat, boring land and maybe a couple of rocks, but they appeared to be at the edge of a large forest, which meant they must be far closer to civilisation than he’d thought. He surveyed the landscape, pristine under a carpet of snow that glittered in the mid-morning sun. He breathed deeply, the crisp air revitalising him. He couldn’t help but feel optimistic after such an uplifting start to the day. He smoothed his hand down the thick fabric of the tunic Geralt had lent him. It was far too large, but he’d managed to cinch the waist in with a leather cord and now it looked half decent. At least it was warm. And it smelled good too—like woodsmoke, leather, and something earthy and inherently masculine. He smiled to himself as he secured his pack to Roach’s saddle feeling a spark of arousal ignite within at the memory of what they’d just done… If only there had been time for round two…

He glanced up and found Geralt staring at him, eyes dark, hungry, and the spark flickered and grew, making his knees weak. Fuck. So this was how it was going to be from now on. Now he knew the witcher’s touch, there’d be no going back. Now he knew exactly what those hands were capable of—

“Tell me if you’re cold. Don’t be an idiot again,” Geralt growled as he took hold of Roach’s reins. It sounded like an admonition, but Jaskier could now hear the concern behind his gruff tone. It wasn’t an admission of any sort of feeling, but it was more than he had expected. It made Jaskier feel safe, cared for, wanted. Geralt had saved his life, not out of some sense of duty, or because he was being paid, but because he wanted Jaskier around, and that might not be enough for some people, but Jaskier couldn’t stop smiling. 

“I promise.” He drew into step with Geralt and bumped their shoulders together. “So… Next time we’re naked, I was thinking—”

“Jaskier.”

“What? Don’t you want to hear how I want you to fuck me so hard, I—”

_”Jaskier.”_

“Fine, I’ll keep my fantasies—and my hands—to myself.” Jaskier grinned at the low growl coming from Geralt. “You know, you really need to work on your flirting.”

“Fuck.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coriesocks) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/coriesocks) @coriesocks <3


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